


The Lost Outpost

by JackBivouac



Series: Ruins of Azlant [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work, Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bondage, Breeding, F/M, Gang Rape, Ghost Sex, Group Sex, Impregnation, M/M, Multi, Other, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Rape, Tentacle Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-29 04:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackBivouac/pseuds/JackBivouac
Summary: Backstory oneshots deviating/derived from a Ruins of Azlant campaign





	1. The Seeds of Discontent

The Peregrine sailed into the calm waters of the bay with only a gentle rocking against the hull. The one, lonely dock along the sandy beach was well within rowing distance.

Roaan, child of the Talmandor colony’s founder, lowered their spyglass, their pulse pounding in their ears. None of the colonists were in sight. There was no smoke from cook fires or the smithy. A few of the new homes even appeared burned out. By the end of the hour, everyone would know.

Roaan called over the one friendly soul they’d met on the voyage, the beautiful, blond half-elf Eamon. He was followed by dark, handsome, but dour friend Harcourt. Roaan handed over the spyglass.

“That’s not good,” said Eamon.

“That’s a mutiny waiting to happen,” said Harcourt.

“Thanks. Moving on, we need damage control. Could you guys go ashore and check things out?”

“Of course,” said Eamon.

Harcourt rolled his eyes. Of course his bleeding heart of a best friend would say yes. So of course he went along into the rowboat.

Roaan watched through the spyglass as the two rowed out to the dock. Strange ripples tailed after the boat. Roaan called out a warning. Neither heard the distant shout nor saw the bright blue tentacles slithering up through the azure waves.

Two grindylows, goblinoid shark above and octopoid tentacles below, yanked Eamon and Harcourt out from the rowboat and under the pier. They thrashed in the water, struggling to keep their heads above water.

Tentacles lashed around their flailing arms and legs. The coiling bonds pushed their legs apart and kept them spread. The grindylows’ jagged teeth ripped through their pants and the skin of their legs.

Thick, bright blue lengths, pierced through the churning waters into their struggling preys’ assholes. Eamon and Harcourt screamed and swallowed seawater as the tentacles punched into their clenched holes.

But the pain pistoning up their shafts only strengthened the fight in their tentacle-bound limbs. For every pound up their stuffed anuses, Eamon and Harcourt stamped their heels down against the grindlows’ sharkish heads.

The wriggling tentacles swelled in the wet squeeze of their assholes. Cum exploded from the tapered tips.

Harcourt grunted in rage and dug his booted heel into his grindylows’ head. The rich boy’s new, sharp leather scraped into the marine goblin’s eye socket and popped out the ball.

The grindylow screamed under the bloody, churning waters. Its tentacles loosed around Harcourt’s limbs and plunged out of his asshole.

His head broke the surface, spitting the bloody, salty water. He looked around wildly. Eamon was nowhere in sight. Harcourt dived back below.

The half-elf dragged unconscious behind the swimming grindylow, his hair a golden cloud around his limply bobbing head. The goblinoid’s tentacles continued to thrust and pound into their drowning captive’s anus.

Harcourt swam onto the grindylow’s back. He wrapped his bare, bleeding legs around its belly and jammed his fingers into its fist-sized eyes.

The grindylow screamed. Its tentacles ripped off and out from Eamon, a cloud of its gluey seed bursting from his torn, winking anus.

Harcourt hooked his arm under his friend and swam them both to the surface. He threw Eamon onto the pier and scrabbled up himself. He lowered his ear to the half-elf’s chest. Eamon wasn’t breathing.

Harcourt blinked back the prickling heat in his eyes and pounded Eamon’s chest. He put his mouth onto Eamon’s, blowing down the half-elf’s throat. He pounded again, again.

Just as the tears finally leaked from his eyes, Eamon coughed and choked up salty water into his mouth. Harcourt jerked back, spitting off the side of the pier.

Eamon pushed up shakily onto his elbows. Harcourt, in the heat of relief, pulled Eamon against his chest into a crushing kiss. They pulled apart, breathing hard.

“Was that tongue?” the half-elf panted with a weak but cheeky grin.

“Shut up--I thought you were dead,” Harcourt grumbled, pulling himself off his friend.

Eamon shrugged and accepted his friend’s help up from the pier. With both their pants in tatters, it couldn’t escape his notice that Harcourt was semi-erect.


	2. A Trick of the Geist

Eamon and Harcourt had no choice but to continue on from the dock pantless, for the moment. The nearest building was the church of Erastil, god of hunting and farming, on a small, sandy rise overlooking the bay.

The church was built like a large log cabin with a thatched, pitched roof and three gables. Its several open windows were uncovered, and the sole entrance to the east was bereft of a door. Dried blood trailed from the entrance to the altar.

Eamon and Harcourt shared a nervous glance. They entered the church with almost reverent silence.

The altar stood draped in a dusty white cloth beneath a wooden carving of a humanoid with the head of a stag. Two rows of benches faced the altar, some having been knocked over. Two piles of ashes were visible in the aisle between them. 

No one had been here in weeks, maybe even a month. Not long enough, however, to disperse the scent of rotting flesh from the altar.

“This is a bad idea,” said Harcourt. “Are we really doing this?”

“Yes,” said Eamon. He yanked the cloth out from under the carving.

A noxious cloud of dust and decaying reek exploded from the altar. There in its carved hollow was the rotted corpse of the priest.

A glowing blue poltergeist funneled out from the skull's nostrils and into the air. Eamon and Harcourt ran for the door, coughing into their sleeves.

Ectoplasmic tentacles surged out from the ghost's glowing cloud. The sticky, rubbery goop seized around the men's bare ankles and naked legs.

Eamon and Harcourt yelped as the tentacles yanked them upside down in the air. They beat and clawed at the ectoplasmic coils. The poltergeist only raised its arms, sending more tentacles lashing their arms to their sides.

The ghost's disembodied cackling rang through the church. Two more tentacles, darker and thicker than the rest, slithered out from between the poltergeist's legs. Their blunt, weighty heads prodded up the men's legs, searching.

“No, no, no, no, nnnghh!” they screamed, the dark heads shoving through their already ravaged assholes.

Eamon and Harcourt shuddered and writhed, utterly helpless as the ghost’s tentacles plowed and filled the full length of their raw, burning anuses. Every brutal pound into their rectal cavity knocked a shrieking from their lungs. And a spasm from their taut, quivering shafts.

Eamon cried out, his sharp keen more moan than protest. The poltergeist grinned and ramped up the speed and force of its pistoning assault in the half-elf's anus. Eamon moaned, unmistakably, again and again.

Eamon's helpless animal pleasure sent a bolt of heat shooting up from Harcourt's crotch to the dark roots in his scalp. Harcourt shut his eyes and grit his teeth. He couldn't shut out the sound. Harcourt’s cock stiffened despite himself.

With his eyes closed, his mind grafted the image of his bound, moaning friend onto the thick, heavy cock tearing through his anus. His shaft tightened around its raping girth. Eamon's.

Tingling, ectoplasmic cum exploded into their pulped, squeezing anises. Eamon screamed, cum splattering from his own dick onto his stomach.

His orgasmic scream ripped a sharp, heated gasp from Harcourt's throat. Cum burst from Harcourt's cock, splattering him right in the face and mouth.

The poltergeist only cackled louder. Its entire form burst into a salty, frothy spray.

Eamon and Harcourt fell. Their sticky bodies thunked against the wooden floorboards. The poltergeist's glowing blue cum oozed from their asses. It turned to the salty froth where it hit the church floor.

“Are you ok?” asked Eamon, rubbing his bruised bum.

“I could be better,” Harcourt grumbled, grabbing for the cloth. He tore it into two lengths for them to wrap around their legs.

“Nice skirt,” Eamon grinned.

Harcourt's face flushed beet red. His fumbling tongue couldn't say it, but Eamon's short, thigh-baring wrap looked even better.


	3. Making Replacements

The crew of the Peregrine immediately realized something was wrong with the newly established Talmandor colony. It had, for all intents and purposes, been abandoned by the first wave of colonists. Which meant the ship couldn’t resupply here--they would have to cut the remaining rations down to a quarter just to make it to the nearest port.

In retribution, Captain Markos ordered all the colonists aboard the ship rounded up. They were bound to the ship’s rail in a line of flesh, thighs spread and lashed to the bars. Their arms were lashed to their sides, wrists bound uselessly behind their backs.

The crew fell to vengeant raping at once. Roaan, child of Talmandor’s founder, received the worst of the punishment. Or the best, mused Captain Markos as he watched his men line up to rape that barely legal ass, newly orphaned.

He himself stalked toward Roaan’s bared ass, unbuckling his belt. His man slapped that tight ass bright red as he pistoned into Roaan’s anus. Each pound sent a spurt of someone else’s cum dribbling out of Roaan’s sloppy hole and down either thigh.

The crewman came with a low groan. He pulled out with a last, vicious slap. Roaan grunted between their teeth where their head dangled on the other side of the rail.

Captain Markos grabbed Roaan’s head by their tangled mess of short, brown locks and turned their face, forcing them to look upon the rape of every single other colonist they were responsible for. Roaan blinked hard and fast but couldn’t stop the tears leaking from their soft brown eyes.

“Never forget, you did this,” the captain growled in their ear as he shoved his cock up Roaan’s heretofore ignored pussy.

Roaan jumped and yelped at the force of his penetration, their surprisingly large tits bouncing with the protesting buck of their hips.

“Captain, please! Rape my ass! I can’t--I can’t get pregnant like this!”

Captain Markos released their hair to grab Roaan’s throat instead, choking off their pathetic protest.

“I’m going to cum into your slutty, androgynous snatch,” he growled into their ear. “If you didn’t want to get pregnant, you should have thought about corresponding with your fucking colony before sailing us out here.”

True to his word, the captain pounded Roaan’s slutty, androgynous cunt like a screen door in a hurricane. Their mound ground into the rail, bound thighs shaking violently against the wooden bars keeping them standing.

Roaan’s walls squeezed, tight and wet with slick around his raping cock. Captain Markos growled a laugh into their ear, shaking under each of his thrusts.

“I bet you wanted this to happen, didn’t you, you filthy slut. You think I can’t feel your cunt trying to wring the cum into your baby hole?”

Roaan’s tears ran down the knuckles of his hand around their throat. Captain Markos bit the taut skin of their naked shoulder and came into their pussy, pumping his seed into Roaan’s womb. Their mouth opened to a silent, wretched sob of despair.

Captain Markos stepped back with a booming laugh. “Make sure to get the founder’s uppity bitch-child pregnant!”

The crew took up a roaring cheer. Just to be safe, they stuffed both of Roaan’s holes so full of seed that their belly swelled with a cum baby. 

Every womb-laiden colonist received the same.


	4. Cast-Off

Eamon and Harcourt emerged from Erastil’s church upon the hill to a horrific sight upon the bay. All the passengers aboard the Peregrine had been stripped naked and bound to the rail of the ship. Worse, the crew was cutting them loose from the thighs without unbinding their arms and tossing them into the waters of the bay. Worse still, the entire tribe of raping, humanoid-devouring grindylows waited in the waves below.

It was a drowning, churning, tentacle-raping nightmare below the Peregrine. Yet Captain Markos’ laugh boomed across the bay. It started Eamon and Harcourt running like a gunshot.

Their modesty skirts flew off their racing legs. They didn’t care. They sprang into the rowboat and rowed as fast as they could to their fellow colonists.

The one bright spot of it all was that with such abundant, easily dragged prey, the grindylows completely ignored Eamon and Harcourt. On the other hand, anyone yanked below the surface was too difficult to save. They were forced to stick to grabbing anyone who’d not yet been targeted by grindylows to keep the rowboat from capsizing and losing all survivors.

In the end, Eamon and Harcourt rowed only ten others back to shore--one short of their rowboat’s capacity of thirteen. Only a fraction of the original number of second wave colonists.

They’d managed to save Roaan, who hid their face behind a bowed head and curtain of short, brown tangles. The others, they knew only in passing: Santrier, Casting, Urvic, Lyrath, Pell, Machi, Renghe, Fret, and Themais. 

If they recalled those names correctly. Roaan would know, but it was a silent ride back to the shore, apart from the odd wet cough or escaped sob.

As soon as docked at the pier. Eamon and Harcourt loosed everyone’s bonds and helped them stagger into relative safety. Everyone’s clothing situation could wait.

The twelve, led by Eamon and Harcourt with Roaan bringing up the rear, followed a well-worn path through the weedy grass up the slope toward the cluster of buildings. 

Talmandor had built up in a rough triangle, each point ending in a wooden circular enclosure. They were meant to be three points of a wooden palisade fence, which would enclose this first group of buildings once completed. Wishful thinking.

The settlement welcomed them with its dead quiet, unfinished arms. The weedy grass, cropped at one point, had regrown across the dirt paths. The buildings were burned bones of rough timber or mud brick, their roofs caved. Windows gaped like empty eyes, as did most of the doors.

Roaan fell to their knees at the back of the group. They’d failed. They’d failed everyone on the ship. They’d failed everyone at the colony.

“Hey, hey, come on, you’ve got to get up,” said Eamon. He crouched down beside them and took their hands in his.

“Yeah, we were gonna raid the houses for clothes. Unless you prefer stepping out in the nude,” said Harcourt.

Eamon released one hand to swat at Harcourt, who jumped nimbly back.

“This is...this is pretty bad, Roaan, but it’s not your fault,” said Eamon. “Once we take stock, set up camp, we can start really searching this island. Our families couldn’t have just vanished without a trace.”

“So are you gonna sit there and suntan your privates,” asked Harcourt, “or are you gonna get up and help us figure out what the fuck happened?”

Roaan raised their head. Their red-rimmed eyes hardened with determination. What the fuck happened, that was the question.


End file.
